


This Is (Not) Our Future

by CloudDreamer



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Accurate to the first two games only, Any ship not tagged isnt going to show up out of a toxic context, Brainwashing, Cult Indoctrination Techniques, Dark fic, Enoshima Junko Being Enoshima Junko, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, Fix-It, Human Nanami Chiaki, LITERALLY, Medical Torture, Not Canon Compliant - Dangan Ronpa 3, Pre-Despair (Dangan Ronpa), Puella Magi Madoka Magica References With Spoilers, Seduction to the Dark Side, Self Harm, Torture, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, eventually, suicide baiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-17 03:36:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16966941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudDreamer/pseuds/CloudDreamer
Summary: Welcome to Hope's Peak Academy.Junko Enoshima has a plan, but in order to accomplish it, she'll need some allies.This is the story of how the 78th class fell from grace and how Chiaki Nanami was lost in the process.-In which there is no brainwashing video and all of the manipulation is done the old fashioned way.





	This Is (Not) Our Future

**Author's Note:**

> any plot stuff i don't touch on in too much detail like the kamakura stuff is close enough to canon. i'll do my best to tag any triggers as they come up but im not very good at remembering that sorta stuff, so feel free to remind me.

It was difficult to find information on anything remotely scandalous at a school as prestigious as Hope’s Peak, but that was what had interested Junko in the first place. Nowhere could have such a perfect reputation. Especially a school where hundreds of genius teenagers interacted on a daily basis. If they’d invited a Despair Sister by accident, there were certainly other chaotic personalities hidden. So, once Junko found the letter in the mail, she started digging.

She’d made plenty of connections over the years with terrorist groups, arms dealers, and information brokers of all sorts, along with many more mundane yet equally cut throat figures in the international modeling industry. In her search, Junko had called on almost all of them.

Now she watched as the emails rerouted through half a dozen accounts each piled in. The Hope’s Peak administration was thorough, she acknowledged. This challenge was almost hair pullingly despairing. If this whole search had been a waste of time, and there wasn’t anything she could use, she woulda been soooooooo sad. 

But of course, her instincts had been right. Disappointing in one way, exciting in another, as always. 

_Subject: a favor_  
_Subject: arson_  
_Subject: re: threatens and murder and blackmail oh my_  
_Subject: Missing Student_  
_Subject: re: re: missing yakuza heiress?_

She scanned through the responses, before her eyes landed on one sent in a very particular code. It was a language composed entirely of various emojis, which Junko had invented at two. The grammar and vocabulary was designed in order to infuriate anyone who tried to learn it and offend anyone who managed to. Only one other person knew it. 

Translated, the subject meant _Hope’s Peak_. 

Despair filled Junko as she read through the message. Her ugly sister would be RUINING _her_ high school debut. Obviously she was going, after all this talk of arson, murder, and some sort of Ultimate fucking NERD. 

She typed out a quick response telling the dumb army bitch to eat a bullet and die like the useless waste of space she was. Mukuro responded only a moments later with a blushing face middle finger gun stuffed bear. 

Goddamnit, of fucking course Junko had epic plans that would be put Into motion soon enough. Could that useless moron wait five seconds for the end of the world? It wasn’t like SHE’D been doing any of the planning or anything. Fenrir might be infamous in merc communities, but nobody in the whole damn world would kill themself just cuz she told them to. She’d have to do the hard work herself. 

Junko laughed.

Another message came in, this one from Hope’s Peak itself. Wrapped up bunch of boring administrative things was her account to the school website. She hadn’t managed to hack any of the files themselves, thanks to the Ultimate level coding, which had been majorly bumming her out, nyah. Now she would be allowed to check out the lightest level of clearance, which wasn’t much, but it would let her pick her allies ahead of time. Obviously Mukuro, nyah, because she was useful, despite her laaaaaaaameness. 

She spun on her rolling chair as it loaded, making a single rotation before the introduction page popped up. No, Junko did not need a tutorial, what sort of sillies were her soon to be classmates? 

The roster listed more than her grade, which she was grateful for. What sort of talent was precognition anyway? She didn’t need any sports players, and the mysterious Kyouko — aka a super secret detective nyah —would figure out her recruiting strats too quickly. A writer? Nyah, she specialty was romance.

 _Now that’s interesting,_ she thought as her curser landed on the heir to the yakuza. He was one of the students several sources had mentioned as connected to the mysterious death in the reserve course. Such close access to that particular crime syndicate could be quite useful. 

The seventy eighth class. Only one year above her. Distant enough that they wouldn’t see her in contexts she didn’t want them too but close enough to have natural opportunities for interaction. Interaction, which would lead to friendship. Friendship, which would forge loyalty. And loyalty, which would end with worship. 

The plans she’d been developing suddenly sharpened, taking shape in her mind. With the support of that class, she didn’t need decades to establish a chain of events that would bring the world to its knees. 

She could do it in a single year.

She _would_.

8o8o8o8o

Ryota headed towards Hope’s Peak nurse’s office, with his scarf wrapped around his face. He coughed as he walked, a headache forming behind his temples. It was bright out. Maybe he should’ve worn shades… no, that would’ve just made him look suspicious. Then again, with the way people dressed around here, shades probably wouldn’t be the weirdest. 

His thoughts distracted him to the extent that he didn’t notice that someone was leaving the building, even after he bumped into her. One foot another, then the next. That’s how he moved. 

Of course, it was rather difficult not to notice her when she grabbed him by the shoulder, before twisting him around and holding him by the scarf.

He yelped in surprise, unused to random strangers pulling him out of his path. 

It took a few moments for him to realize she was not a random stranger, actually. Junko Enoshima, also known as the Hottest Girl Of The Year according to several magazines. Her big blue eyes were staring directly into his. Was he blushing? He was probably blushing. It wasn’t any day that super attractive models grabbed him. 

“Can… I help you?” he stumbled through the words. “What is _your_ name?” she asked, as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. 

Before he could answer, a girl ran out of the building, calling after Junko. 

Ryoto didn’t recognize her. Her outfit was much plainer than Junko’s, with a ribbon at her neck and gloves as the only embellishment, and dozens of freckles covered her face at random intervals. The muscles underneath her outfit were well defined— some sort of athletic talent, he assumed. Sports weren’t exactly Ryota’s strong suit, so he had no idea who any of the famous people there were. 

"I'm... uh. Ryota Mitiari." 

“Oh. My. Gosh! You are so... so…” she proclaimed, struggling for words, before eventually settling on “so cute!”

He considered trying to pull himself away from her but couldn’t bring himself to cause a scene. Besides, who cared about personal space when the ultimate model herself was right there? She pulled him into a hug, just tight enough not to choke him. 

“What’s your talent? I’ve got to know!” 

“Animator,” he mumbled, words almost unintelligible through the parts of her body she’d wrapped around him. She made a sound to indicate she couldn't hear him, so he repeated the words. She still couldn't hear him. 

“You’re strangling him,” remarked the other girl, eventually. Junko unclenched in response, and Ryota breathed deeply, trying to recover. 

“Shut it, sis!” 

Sis? He didn't know she had a sister. Did anyone know she had a sister? Obviously, the two of them and probably their classmates, but, still. That... was unexpected. Maybe they were adopted or something-- they didn't look remotely alike. Except, perhaps, for that look in their eyes. 

The one he couldn't place. 

The one he didn't really want to place.

Junko bounced around with an energy that seemed impossible to maintain. He wanted to sit down just watching her, though there was a part of him that was wondering what it would be like to be that enthusiastic. Although she addressed the other girl, she kept staring intensely at Ryota, as if expecting some sort of miracle. 

“People call me the Ultimate Animator,” he replied, a little bit too late. He was sure she’d lose interest, maybe call his talent stupid, but she lit up even further. He didn't know that was possible. 

“Really? That’s! So! Cool! I’m a model.” 

“I know," he replied, stating the obvious like an idiot. 

“Do you have a favorite anime? I mean, obviously outside of your own work.” 

Outside of his own work? That made it sound like she thought whatever he had done would be good. Of course— he was an Ultimate. It would be. It would be good, once it was done. Once Ryota had perfected it. He smiled shyly at the idea. It would be _perfect._ It had to be.

“Um. I’m inspired by a lot of… magical girl shows.” 

“You’ve _got_ to be joking! My all time favorite is Madoka Magica. I love how it goes so dark, even if the ending of the original series is a bit cheesy.” 

Ryota looked down. 

“Ryota? What’s wrong?” 

“I sort of like the ending. A lot.” 

She didn’t look disappointed in his cheesy taste like Ryota assumed she would. 

Instead, she reached forward and pushed his chin upwards with her pointer finger, her face too close to his again. For a moment, dread made his blood run cold, but he pushed the strange fear down. Why would he be apprehensive? She was Junko Enoshima: Surprisingly nice worldwide sensation. Famous people had different ideas of what personal space meant. Really. It was fine.

“You’ve _got_ to show me what you like about it.” 

“What… what do you mean?” 

“We’re going to watch it together and you’re going to point out what makes it good. I need to know how Sayaka turning into a witch can make me sob so much! Like, she's just so hopeless, it's _beautiful._ " 

"We are?" 

Her sister didn't say anything to indicate surprise, though Ryota suspected this was the first she was hearing about this. 

“Yes. We are. Give me your phone so I can put my number in?" It was phrased as a request, but Ryota was pretty sure he couldn't say no without ruining her perfect smile, which he didn't want to do. 

He handed the device over, tapping in his password. She leaned over, checking out the backgrounds or something, before pulling up the contacts app and typing in the digits with her perfectly manicured fingers. Instead of giving it right back, she opened the camera function and flipped it to selfie mode?

"Pic?" she asked, another question that wasn't a question. He nodded, but she didn't click the button until he said yes out loud. "I'll text you. Don't go putting that up on the internet, 'kay? I'll have to make Mukuro kick your butt, and nobody wants that. Except maybe her, hahahaha!" 

"I do not want that," the sister whose name was apparently Mukuro clarified. "Junko's just being Junko."

"You'll pay for that later!" Junko called out, before skipping off. The exit was as unceremonious and sudden as her entrance, leaving Ryota startled, confused, and yet, strangely curious. She was so unabashed. He'd never met anyone that confident before. 

 

8o8o8o8o

 

Mukuro called out a greeting as she entered the fencing room. Peko stood straight, facing away from the door, but she identified the Ultimate Soldier with ease. Very few people managed such an otherwise noiseless approach, and she hadn't exactly seen any sort of ninja lurking. Then again, if there was one, she doubted she'd be able to spot them. Ninjas were notoriously enigmatic. 

“What do you want?” she asked, bluntly. There was no particular need to be subtle with a fellow warrior, even if Peko _was_ capable of a defter touch. 

“To spar.”

Peko turned to address Mukuro head on, examining her. The short brown hair was clean but messy, with any grooming preformed for the sole purpose of preventing strands from compromising her vision. The fabric of her outfit was thick, to the point where Peko suspected parts of it were designed as armor. Her stance was natural 

“YEAH!” Nekomaru yelled, arriving out of what appeared to be no where. The large teenager was drawn to competition, with an efficiency that bordered on the precognitive. It’d been a bit of a surprise at first, but Peko had grown used to his esoteric arrivals. 

He carried two bags that looked suspiciously like sheaths with him, handing one to Peko and one to Mukuro. 

When she opened it, Peko found a sword and not just any sword. It was perfectly balanced for her weight and the precise length she preferred. The edge was dulled, but it could be sharpened with a whetstone. There was a beautiful yet haunting design carved into the blade itself; it showed cherry blossoms wrapped around a skull. The lines were unbelievably precise, yet varied in weight as not to get repetitive. 

“Who...?” Peko asked, although she knew only someone known as the Ultimate Blacksmith would be able to make this.

“Komaeda left them behind. I figured I’d return them to him, but then I overheard you two.”

“Komaeda is your classes’s Luck,” remarked Mukuro, her tone indicating it wasn’t a question. 

The sword she’d drawn was similar, but clearly made to fit her proportions. Peko couldn’t see the details of the design as clearly, but it was as elaborate as her own. The circumstances behind the creation of these seemingly customized blades would be confusing and convoluted if Komaeda’s talent was involved, so she simply went with it. 

That was what warriors did.

“Go!”

Peko assumed an offensive stance, the weapon slicing through the air with ruthless precision. The sword was a natural extension of her body, as part of her as her eyes, her ears, or her mouth. Each step was effortless, as her blade met Mukuro’s. Neither of them began seriously attacking immediately, merely testing each other. Rushing into a killing blow would be a mistake— it would leave them vulnerable if they missed or were blocked. 

“Peko! Peko!” Nekomaru cheered, before alternating to support Mukuro. Even if she’d allowed herself to pay attention to the distraction, Peko would not feel annoyed. It was Nekomaru’s job to encourage them both, forcing them to be their best self. She would seize victory.

Peko eyes tracked every part of Mukuro’s body, but she didn’t give anything away. 

An amateur would allow themselves to tense in preparation or let their eyes drift to their target. There was no such weakness in her form. As a soldier, Mukuro would be used to longer battles and days of hard work. Peko’s endurance was nothing to scoff at, but she knew it couldn’t compare to the persistence earned from such an unpredictable life. Their battle would need to be settled quickly. 

The clash of metal grew quicker and quicker, almost a blur. There were a thousand different variables to think through in an instant. A feint, a parry, a dodge, an attempted leg sweep... Mukuro was mixing in moves from her martial arts training, but Peko could respond to that too. 

Faster, faster, faster. 

It felt like it’d been forever since she’d faced an opponent who could keep up with her, and from the wide grin on Mukuro’s face, she felt the same. This skill came not from any inherent talent but from an unstoppable determination. There was no hope in their movements-- there was no time for hope. 

Until it was over.

Mukuro only made a single mistake. It was small— her guard was only a few milliseconds too slow. If it was anyone else she faced, they wouldn’t have been able to take advantage of it. But Peko was not anyone else. She was the Ultimate Swordsman and tool of heir to the yakuza. No one had bested her yet.

The blade slid up against Mukuro’s neck.

“Yield.” 

She did, dropping the sword. 

“SHIT!” Nekomaru proclaimed, clapping his hands together. The sound they made practically shook the room. Hopefully Akane wasn't nearby. The destruction caused by those two getting into a fight tended to be... catastrophic. “I’ve never seen anyone keep up with Peko like that! You’re the real shit!” 

“You’re good,” Mukuro said, electing to ignore Nekomaru. Upon realizing the competition was over for now, Nekomaru handed them both bottles of Gatorade, vouched for the necessity of hydration, and left the room screaming about how he needed to shit. They politely decided to ignore his bombastic exit through a series of messages delivered exclusively through eye contact. Once he'd left, they sat down on the bench to talk. “When did you start training?” 

“Practically from birth. You?”

“The same. We have to do this again sometime. I’ve never lost before.” The novelty of the situation didn’t seem to have disheartened her. If anything, she was smiling even wider now, with an unnerving enthusiasm. 

Peko nodded, and the question hung in the air for almost a full minute. It was probably simple social awkwardness, an infliction she was well acquainted with, but the silence felt pregnant with an inexplicable meaning.

“You’re well known in the mercenary community,” Mukuro said 

“What sort of things am I known for?”  
“Very little kind, but impressive nonetheless. Your dedication to your master is commendable.” 

Peko sucked in a breath.

“Don’t... don’t tell anyone.”

“I wasn’t going to.” Another pause filled the air, hanging heavy between them. Mukuro laid her hand on Peko’s thigh. It was callused but unscarred. If the legends were to be believed, her entire body was unblemished. “I know what it’s like to be used.” 

She could’ve asked how or why Mukuro said what she’d said with any authority. Maybe she should’ve. But the look on her face was captivating. Love. Despair. Determination. She was strong, not because she hadn’t been to war, but because she’d survived it. Even Fuyuhiko, her beloved young master, didn’t understand the feeling. None of her classmates did. Mukuro had clearly killed in the service of another. In that way, they were sisters. Regardless, if they were to come to more serious blows, neither would hold back.

Peko placed her hand on top of Mukuro’s, as it rested on her leg.

“Teach me,” Mukuro asked, a less somber note entering her voice. Peko cocked her head in an unspoken question. “I'm not as skilled with swords as I should be. Who better to learn from than you?” 

“You’re already very good,” she acknowledged. 

“Very good isn’t perfect. I want to be perfect— I _need_ to be perfect.”

The voracity in her words matched how she’d looked when she’d lost. She was starving for a challenge. Peko couldn’t lie— she felt the same need. She hadn’t felt that overpowering adrenaline rush from the fear of loss in years, and now Mukuro offered it to her. But to give into her own wants... what if Mukuro had ill intentions towards Fuyuhiko? She couldn’t allow herself to be compromised.

“I can’t.” 

“You’re scared I’ll use the knowledge to hurt him, aren’t you.” 

It wasn’t a question, though it was phrased that way.

“How did you know?” 

Mukuro drew her hand back, and Peko‘s cheeks flushed. Tools did not seek the companionship of other tools, particularly if there was a risk of conflict between those tools. Friendship with her classmates was acceptable. This warrior, however, was an unknown. 

“Because it’s what I would think.” Before she fully processed that statement, Mukuro continued, “If you want, I’ll teach you some things I’ve learned over the years as well. That way we're both gaining something.”

“It’s a deal.” 

They shook hands, sealing the promise despite the doubts Peko could not escape. She would discuss the encounter with Fuyuhiko later, although she suspected his answer would be the same as it always was.

Be herself. 

Be free. 

Whatever that meant.


End file.
